The Next Step
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: All the next steps Casey's taken, one right after another. Each one has made sense; every one has been right. But now that he's here, he's not sure where to go next.


Title: The Next Step

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: This fic fills my infected wounds/septicemia prompt for **hc_bingo**. Written for **sockie1000** with beta help from **postfallen**. Set preseries. I apologize that this is all in one chapter. I hope the two people who read this will forgive me ;) (Also, Rick fic is coming. Next week!)

Summary: All the next steps Casey's taken, one right after another. Each one has made sense; every one has been right. But now that he's here, he's not sure where to go next.

-o-

Casey is not a man with delusions of grandeur.

No, Casey's a realist. He's practical and pragmatic. He does not indulge sentimentality, and he is not inclined to mediocrity or uncertainty. So when there is grandeur involved, there are no delusions. It is simple reality.

So, when Casey says that this isn't quite what he expected for his career it's not a determination without merit. Simply put, this is not what Casey expected because Casey has always known himself to be capable of anything. The hardest operations. The most dangerous missions. The deepest covers.

That is why Casey became a spy.

Not _this._

"Which was all well and good," Billy says as his long legs keep pace through the foliage. "But I had packed for a deep cover mission in the Caribbean, so I was ill prepared for a jaunt in Siberia. Bastards said it was a joke, but I very nearly lost my pinky toe on that mission."

"I'm sorry," Casey says.

"Me, too," Billy agrees mournfully. "I am quite fond of my toes, especially the pinkies."

"No," Casey says. "I'm sorry that you're such a moron that you got duped while on the job. By your coworkers, no less."

"To be fair, I was a bit green," Billy says. "First mission-"

"That could have been your last," Casey says, stepping over a larger branch. He shakes his head. "Maybe they deported you because you're an idiot."

Billy pales a little bit, head down as he keeps ahead. "I've been on this team for nearly three months," he says. "I refuse to believe you're truly a heartless bastard, Casey Malick."

Casey grunts. "You're not helping your case, kid," he says. "I may not have discretion over who is on this team, but that doesn't mean I have to keep my opinions to myself. I'm frankly surprised the CIA picked you up at all. Someone must have owed you a favor."

Billy purses his lips. "Appearances can be deceiving," he says ruefully. "You, of all people, should know that."

Casey harrumphs. "They can be," he says. "But not always."

"I have to believe," Billy says. "That you're here for a reason."

"Well, I'm not here because I got myself deported," Casey acknowledges.

Billy doesn't rise to the bait. "You're a capable spy."

"I'm the best spy," Casey corrects.

"My point exactly," Billy says. "Why is the high and mighty on this team in the first place?"

"This team has more discretion than any other team in the Agency," Casey points out.

"Which is why it hires MI6 castoffs, yeah?"

Casey turns a glare at the kid. "I don't make the rules," he says. "I just play by them as long as I need to."

Billy nods, and they walk a few more paces in silence. "You had options, though," he surmises.

"I always have options," Casey says.

"So this team?" Billy asks.

"Was the next logical step," Casey supplies to him. "But my career trajectory is none of your business."

"You're the one who asked how I got here," Billy points out.

"I wanted to know what idiocy you had committed in the past to prepare myself for a possible repeat," Casey says. "This may be reconnaissance, but it's still a serious mission. I don't like you; I don't trust you. I was trying to be prepared. You're the one who turned it into story time."

"I was being friendly," Billy says. "Which is more than I can say for you."

"We're spies," Casey grumbles. "Not friends. It's about time you learned the difference."

Billy snorts. "Are you always this grumpy or do I just bring out the worst in you?"

"Does it matter?" Casey asks.

"Reckon not," Billy says.

"Exactly," Casey says. "Now shut up and check our coordinates. We should be getting close."

Billy pulls out his GPS. "Some might say the next logical step for you would be to get a heart."

"Yeah," Casey says. "No."

Billy shrugs and opens his mouth.

Casey stops and looks at him. "Really," he says. "You should stop. I know ten ways to incapacitate you right now using nothing more than my fists. That number doubles if we take into consideration the brush and foliage in the area. Now, tell me the coordinates."

Billy looks sullenly at his GPS. "We're close," he says. "Just another mile, due north."

"Good," Casey says. "See, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

Billy, mercifully, says nothing as Casey starts walking again.

The hardest operations. The most dangerous missions. The deepest covers.

That is why Casey became a spy.

Not_ this._

Babysitting the MI6 reject who didn't know how to shut up. Casey has no delusions of grandeur, so when he feels like he's wasting his potential…

Well, he's starting to think it might be more true than he'd like to admit.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I fought ninjas?" he asks. "Because _that _is a great story…"

Casey suppresses a growl.

The next logical step.

Might be something he contemplates when this stupid mission is over.

-o-

The mission isn't even a mission.

That's the worst part of it all.

Not only does Casey have to endure the childish ramblings of Britain's worst spy, but it's all for fact finding. Sure, Michael has all these fancy names for it, but it all comes back to the reality that they're just gathering intel. Any actual movement against this subset of the Russian mob is still years away. Because Michael has plans, and he sees the big picture, and apparently that means instead of stopping criminals, they are just going to take pictures of them.

Carson had called it a relief to not be in the line of fire.

Billy had just been so happy to have something to do.

Sometimes Casey thinks he's the only real spy among them. Sure, they're good under pressure, and Casey has seen Michael pull off some amazing things, but this is getting ridiculous. Casey's skill are unparalleled, and instead of exacting covert justice, he's taking pictures in the underbrush like a common private eye.

It's demeaning.

It's demoralizing.

When he's done, he shoves the camera to Billy. "We're good," he says.

Billy fumbles with the camera. "Maybe we should move a bit to the right?" he ventures. "We might have a better view of the front-"

"It's a gate," Casey tells him flatly. "Behind that, is a road that leads to a building. That building has a door. There's a security system - nothing special, but nothing to snark about - and there are a dozen armed men with guns. It's a homebase for the mob. We've confirmed it. What could a few steps to the right give us?"

"Better imagery on the security mechanisms?" Billy asks. "A precise look at the entrance procedures and the ability to confirm the number of guards?"

Casey sighs, glowering. "Those details are superfluous."

"The details can save a mission," Billy points out.

"Sure, when they're the right details," Casey says. "All we need to know is this: security system, guards, mob. And our solutions are simple: disable it, disarm them, disband them. I could finish this right now but no, apparently we don't want to risk _anything._"

"Michael's plan is prudent," Billy says.

Casey huffs. "Just take your damn pictures," he says. "I'm ready to get out of here."

Billy raises his eyebrows but wisely says nothing. He backtracks, moving along the treeline to another secure spot up the way.

Casey watches him, sulking.

This is pointless. This is beneath him.

Casey is so ready to get out of here.

In more ways than one.

-o-

It takes approximately 20 minutes.

They hiked for hours; they covered miles. They flew halfway around the world and secured permission from the highest rungs of the CIA ladder.

For a 20 minute photo opportunity.

Casey is more than a little annoyed, so when it's time to check in with the rest of the team, Casey grumbles that he's too busy packing up their gear.

He is packing the gear, but since it's literally two cameras and a survival pack, it's not like it's a time consuming job.

Even so, Billy doesn't seem to mind taking the call. The kid's an idiot; he likes to hear himself talk. If anything, Casey's doing him a favor.

To be safe, they trek a little deeper into the woods before Billy takes out the SAT phone. He has to wait a few moments for it to power up, and even then he seems to have trouble getting a signal. Casey's already done with his part of this so-called mission by the time Billy gets the thing to ring.

"Well, it's lovely to hear from you, too," Billy jokes, and Casey can hear Carson's sardonic tone over the other end. "And that's confirmed. My photography skills may be a bit wanting, but I think we got a few shots worth keeping."

Casey stows the pack over his back and does his best not to glower.

Then he decides that's pointless and glowers heavily.

"Okay," Billy says. He glances at Casey. "Of course not. We've had a smashing time of it."

Casey sharpens the glower into a glare.

Billy smirks. "Truly," he says to Carson. "After the hike back I'm sure we'll be the best of mates."

Casey doesn't justify the Scotsman's idiocy with an interruption.

"Of course," Billy says. "We'll meet you at the checkpoint in several hours. And you two bastards are buying dinner."

With that, he hangs up. He starts to pack the phone up as he glances at Casey again. "Carson wanted to be sure you were treating me well."

"Carson is soft," Casey mutters. "He likes you."

"Because I am quite likeable," Billy says, as if it should be obvious.

"You're an idiot," Casey replies.

"And you're so charming," Billy counters.

Casey sets his eyebrows firmly. "Charm isn't part of the job."

Billy looks surprised. "It's not?" he asks. "Have you not seen a James Bond movie?"

"Those movies are ridiculous," Casey says. "If you look to him as a role model, then you're in worse shape than I thought."

With a small smile, Billy doesn't seem phased by the insult. "Sometimes all it takes to diffuse a situation is a smile and some wit."

"And sometimes that gets you killed," Casey tells him. "I'll trust my fists any day."

"I'm not disparaging your physical prowess," Billy says. "I'm just saying charm is another skill. Another tactical asset to consider. You talk about the next logical step, and maybe that's it."

"To become an idiot?" Casey ventures.

"To hone your interpersonal craft," Billy says. "There are many ways to advance your career and not all of them involve changing your position."

Casey is more than a little skeptical. As a general rule, he doesn't take advice, and he's less inclined than usual to tolerate it right now. "You got yourself deported," he says. "You'll have to forgive me for doubting the validity of your advice."

Billy's smile tightens but doesn't fade. "Well, then, not much I can do about that," he says. He looks out toward the forest. "You ready for the walk back?"

"Apparently," Casey says. "Because sometimes the next logical step is the only one I can take."

"Truer words," Billy says. He holds his hand out. "After you."

Casey sighs. This isn't what he wants. This isn't what he wants _at all._ But there's nothing to be done for it.

With another deep breath, he adjusts his pack and takes the next step out into the woods.

-o-

Casey fully intends on keeping a quick pace. Not only will this reduce the amount of time he's stuck in the woods with Billy Collins, but he's quite confident that the younger man will get winded faster than Casey will. With any luck, after about twenty minutes, Billy won't be able to draw a deep enough breath to bother Casey with some inane attempt at conversation

As far as plans go, this is one of Casey's better ones. True, Michael is the so-called mastermind of their team, and while Casey can appreciate some of Michael's nuance, he thinks that straightforward solutions are sorely underrated on the ODS.

Sure, it's possible to plan or charm or even drink your way out of most situations.

But Casey finds it more expedient to simply power his way through.

One step after the next.

"Casey," Billy says, a few paces behind. "Do you think we ought to proceed with a bit more caution?"

"The mission is over," Casey reminds him brusquely, not bothering to turn around.

"But we are still in enemy territory, so to speak," Billy says, starting to pant.

Casey smirks. "If you want to be stealthy, you should start by shutting your mouth."

"Point taken, but still-"

Casey shakes his head, refusing to slow down. "But still nothing," he says. "I played the game the way everyone wanted me to. I came all the way out here; I took the stupid pictures and put up with your chatter. Now, it's done, and I'm ready to get the_ hell out._"

"Of Russia?" Billy presses. "Or of everything?"

Casey grinds his teeth together as he picks his speed up until his brisk walk is nearly a jog. "As if it matters to you."

Billy grunts as he moves to keep up. "I'm serious, Casey-"

And that's when Casey hears it.

Not Collins' labored breathing. Not the sound of his own heart thrumming evenly in his ears. Not the normal sounds of the forest, rustling in the leaves and echoing through the tree trunks.

No, it's a small sound, almost lost beneath the crunching leaves beneath their own feet. But it's breaking twigs and an inhalation of air-

And the sound of a gun being cocked.

Casey comes to a halt, and Billy almost slams into him from behind. The Scotsman protests loudly, until he sees what Casey has already discerned.

That this mission, as it turns out, isn't over.

Not if the heavily armed man standing a few feet in front of them has anything to say about it.

-o-

Casey stands perfectly still.

He's aware that this is a saying people will use. In most cases, it just means that someone stops and generally doesn't move.

Not for Casey.

No, Casey remains _perfectly _still.

His breathing slows. His perception narrows. Every muscle of his body is held taut, suspended but innately ready for action while he assesses the situation.

And the situation, as best he can tell, is not great.

The man is heavily armed, which suggests he is most definitely part of the group they're tracking. He doesn't look particularly thrilled to see them, and he looks more inclined to shoot and kill them than to worry about effectively capturing them.

While these factors are not great, they also aren't terrible. At any rate, they're nothing Casey can't circumvent.

For starters, the man is armed, but he is only one man. One man, even one with a gun, is no match for Casey. It would be tricky to get a clean break at the man, especially with Collins in the picture, but in theory, it wouldn't be too hard to wait until the man's aim is slightly off to make a forward assault and disable him.

The timing, however, is critical. On his own, Casey wouldn't even hesitate. If the gun's fixed on him, he knows at least half a dozen counter moves to avoid being shot while moving forward past the man's defenses. This would be a done deal by now.

But with a second person, Casey has to worry about keeping Collins clear of the gunfire as well. It seems counterintuitive to most people who assume that having a team is always an asset. Casey doesn't deny that there are times when a little backup is nice, but the fact is that Casey still works better alone, and situations like these only prove his point.

Teamwork is highly overrated.

His assessment is fast and to the point.

Unfortunately, the idiot with the gun has been making his own assessment. Casey figures this guy doesn't want the mess, the hassle or the risk. Hell, he'll probably get his ass chewed out if he shows up with two stragglers in the woods. By all appearances, this guy could be taking a piss or making a personal phone call on company time, so bringing in two prisoners is only going to reflect badly on him.

He lifts his gun higher, steadies his aim.

Casey breathes out through his nose.

This idiot is going to kill them.

Or_ try._

"Whoa!" Billy says, because of the three of them, only the Scotsman doesn't know enough to think before he speaks. Casey is uncertain if this is a cultural issue or a personal defect. He's inclined to think it's both. "They never said anything about this in the guidebooks!"

It's a stupid comment. Of course it's a stupid comment; Casey expects no less from a stupid man.

Billy puts his hands up, looking unduly unsettled. "I'm sure this is a mix up!" he says. "We're backpacking through the area. We wanted something a bit off the beaten path, so if we've wandered into something-"

The man replies gruffly in Russian, jabbing his gun in Billy's direction.

Casey clenches his jaw. Billy has managed to annoy everyone in the vicinity and get himself in the path of the first bullet, which effectively limits Casey's options.

"I told you we should have studied up on Russian before coming here," Billy says with a nervous laugh. "I swear, whatever the misunderstanding, I'm sure we can work it out. I have my passport in my bag and-"

The man says something else, even harsher this time.

"You can call my mum!" Billy offers, a little giddy now. "She's going to be tear me a new one after this. She lectures me about getting a steady job, not blowing through all my savings on wayward trips, but life is for living, eh? Can't spend all your time cooped up in an office, working by yourself now?"

He's rambling.

More than that, he's rambling nonsensically.

None of that is true.

Which is when Casey concludes that this is a vain attempt to use _charm._

Billy is trying to be sweet and endearing, as though that may disarm this man.

This is what Casey's career has come to. Standing idly by while a Scottish man parlays for their freedom with petty lies and a winning smile.

Teamwork.

Casey can't think of much worse.

"That's what I told my mate here, anyhow," Billy continues, nodding toward Casey. "He's a bit antisocial, so I thought some one on one time might befit us both. Don't you think?"

He's talking to Casey now.

With an even, measured breath, Casey speaks tersely. "I think you're wasting your breath," he says. "This guy has a gun and he clearly doesn't speak any English. You're going to get us killed."

The man tenses, gun flitting between Billy and Casey.

Billy inches forward, as if to put himself between Casey and the barrel of the gun. The man responds by training the gun on Billy once more.

Casey makes a face. Collins is trying to _protect _him.

As if Casey_ needs _protection. As if Casey_ wants _protection.

"Seriously, mate," Billy says, imploringly now. "Whatever we have in our wallets, you can take. The phones? They can be yours. This is a misunderstanding."

The man hesitates.

He looks at Casey.

He looks at Billy.

His aim drops, just a little.

Just enough.

Because Casey's not one for charm, and he's sure as hell not one to be rescued.

The opportunity is small, but it's big enough for Casey. Casey has honed his mind and body to absolute perfection. He's capable of what some might call impossible.

Casey's not one for hyperbole. Mostly, he's just one for action.

Surging ahead, he aims low. As he rams into the man's midsection, the gun goes off but the bullet is wide. They hit the ground, and the man grunts beneath him. From his position on top, Casey has as automatic advantages, and that's all he needs. With two quick, expertly landed punches, the man goes limp on the ground.

Casey stays at the ready, just in case. Deftly, he takes the gun and then proceeds to remove all other firearms and several blades from his person. Getting to his feet, he stows the weapons. "Action," he says, with a satisfied smile. "Much better than talking."

He turns around triumphantly, but Billy smiles wanly in return. He looks paler than Casey remembers, and he's starting to sweat. They've walked hard, but it's not been that far. Billy shouldn't be _that _winded.

He also looks scared, his features pinched and drawn.

And that's when he lifts his hand, which is smeared with red. He pulls his jacket away, blinking a few times as he looks down. From behind the fabric, Casey can see the red stain, growing steadily.

Billy looks up, starting to wobble. His mouth opens but there's no comeback.

Instead, Billy's knees give out and he crumbles to the ground.

-o-

Casey hesitates.

It's nothing more than a split second, but it's still a hesitation. A moment of indecision, when Casey is overcome by doubt and fear and _emotion._ It's weak and it's beneath him, and it's just long enough for Collins to hit the ground hard.

And that's when Casey gets a hold of himself.

In a few quick paces, he crosses over to where Billy has fallen. Deftly, he takes the other operative by the shoulder and turns him until he's flat on his back, ignoring the yelping protest. Casey's focus is singular as he reaches down, pulling Billy's shirt up. When it's still difficult to see, he takes the shirt and promptly rips it in half, eliciting a pained cry from the younger man.

Casey ignores him still, instead using his hand to wipe away the excess blood, which is spilling down the front of Billy's stomach.

That's when he sees it, the small wound puncturing the skin to the lower right quadrant. It's missed the most vital organs, but it's close enough to a gutshot that Casey can guess the implications pretty fast. Infection is probable, and the bleeding will be impossible to stop. Worse, if the bullet has hit the digestive tract, complications are almost inevitable, which means that every second Billy spends out of a hospital is another second that lessens his chance of surviving this.

"Oh, hell," Billy breathes, his head lifting off the ground as he cranes his neck down. "This is bad. This is really, really bad."

Casey inhales sharply, but can't quite bring himself to disagree. This isn't great, and Casey knows that. Hell, he probably knows it better than Collins does at the moment because where Billy can see blood and feel pain, Casey's already doing the mental calculations to discern their best chance of getting out of this thing alive.

Essentially, though, there's not a lot to assess. Billy is shot. He's bleeding. Without medical treatment, he will die. It's impossible to say exactly how long that process will take, but the chances are he'll bleed out before he has the chance to die of sepsis, which means Casey's only option is to tie off the wound and get them the hell out of here.

Now.

Because Billy's annoying as hell, and Casey's not sure he belongs with a team, but he's not about to let a teammate die on his watch. If he leaves this team, it's going to be on his terms, not because he feels guilty and not because no one can trust him.

Billy Collins has to live.

Because Casey Malick is not going to be the one who screws up the ODS. No, that's a job for someone else. Another mission. Another day.

Billy drops his head back, and his breathing is starting to hitch. "Oh, damn," he says, voice almost breaking on a sob. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."

Casey grits his teeth together. Collins is starting to freak out, and Casey doesn't have time for that. He also doesn't have time to placate the man. Panic is useless. It just makes you die faster.

No, Casey prefer to use anxiety in a health way.

Quickly, he unshoulders his pack and then shrugs out of his light button up shirt. Efficiently, he reaches down, lifting Billy off the ground.

Billy inhales with a curse, and Casey can feel his hot breath against the nape of his own neck before he threads his shirt underneath and then lowers the Scotsman back down. Without skipping a beat, he takes the two arms of his shirt and start to tie them together, pulling taut so the knot is firm against the puckered flesh.

Then, he takes a moment to move the bandage, ensuring that the biggest portion is across the wound before tightening the knot once more and settling back on his heels.

That's when he looks at Billy.

Sure, he's been looking at Billy the whole time, trying to see how bad the wound was and tie it off. But this time, he doesn't look at blood or listen to the rapid beat of his heart. He looks at _Billy._

The other operative is whitewashed, face stony and pale, twisted with pain. He's sweating, the beads collecting along his hairline and dripping back into the dark tufts of his hair. And he's scared - Casey can see it in his eyes, read it all over his face - and he looks too young to be here.

Too young to die in a foreign land with a fake ID, working for a government he can't even call his own.

This isn't any kind of next step. This is just stupid.

Trembling, Billy meets Casey's gaze. He licks his lip, taking a staggering breath. "Bollocks," he says, voice shaking. "I'm dying."

"That's a bit melodramatic," Casey replies.

Billy shakes his head, short, taut motions that cause the rate of his breathing to increase. "A gutshot, still miles from civilization," he says. "I'll never make it back."

Casey lets out a tense breath. "On your own, no," he agrees. "But you're not on your own."

Billy blinks a few times, as if trying to make sense of that.

Either the kid is stupider than Casey thought, or he's really starting to get shocky.

Casey draws an equally tense breath. "We're teammates, right?"

"For a while longer, at any rate," Billy agrees tremulous.

Casey shrugs. "Then we might as well take advantage of that, right?"

Billy blinks a few more times, and his eyes are wet now. "Casey, I-"

Holding up a hand, Casey shakes his head. "Look," he says. "We can either have a moment here, or we can get the hell out of here. Which do you prefer?"

Billy's brow knits together. "Getting the hell out, I reckon."

"Good," Casey says, getting to his feet. He reaches down and takes Billy by the hand and heaves him up. The younger man grunts, swaying heavily as he almost falls into Casey. It's awkward but not especially hard to keep Billy upright, wrapping his arm around the Scotsman's waist as they work together to get their bearings. "So let's go."

-o-

In Casey's mind, it's all very simple.

Billy's been shot, so they need to get Billy out. There are a lot of other details, Casey knows realistically, but he also knows that they are mostly irrelevant. There is one acceptable outcome to this situation, and Casey intends to make that happen.

Billy's going to live.

He's going to be tired and in pain, and he's probably going to need a protracted hospital stay. Therapy's going to be a pain in the ass, and Casey doesn't even know how Michael and Carson are going to respond to this, much less Higgins. This whole injury-in-the-line-of-duty thing is no one's favorite topic, and Michael will probably take it as a personal assault. And Carson - well, he doesn't need more reasons to drink, and he's soft on the kid. And Higgins is always looking for a reason to get on their asses, so this surely won't help any.

That's fine, though. Because Casey doesn't even need to stay around for all that. Once Collins is safe and squared away, Casey can file his paperwork and get the hell out. He won't even look back. Not once.

Of course, he reflects, shifting his grip to pull Billy a little more steady, he has to get them out of this first.

It's a long walk, and Billy's already listing badly. Casey doesn't stop to check the wound, but it's easy enough to see that while the bleeding has slowed, it hasn't stopped. He could carry Collins, if it comes to that, but Casey would prefer to spare both of them that indignity.

To Billy's credit, he doesn't complain. Casey knows it hurts from the tight wheezes that pass through the Scotsman's lips, but the taller man doggedly keeps his feet, his body staggering but upright as Casey half hauls him through the woods.

"This was unnecessary, you know," Casey mutters hotly.

Billy swallows audibly. "Is that your way of saying thank you?"

Casey makes a face. "Why would I be thanking you?"

"For having your back," Billy says, as though it should be obvious. "That blighter had an itchy trigger finger."

"Obviously," Casey says. "Which is why you should have shut your mouth and let me do the heavy lifting."

Billy cranes his neck, looking at Casey skeptically as they take another labored step. "A full frontal attack is a surefire way to get shot."

"It's action," Casey says. "And you still ended up shot."

"Because you charged him," Billy points out.

"Because your prattle wasn't helping," Casey returned.

"I was thinking about ways_ not _to get us shot," Billy tells him frankly.

"It was pointless," Casey says. "You would have stood there while he mowed you down."

"And you would risk a fight when there might be another way out," Billy says. "Sometimes the next step isn't a step at all."

"So you're promoting inaction now," Casey surmises sarcastically. "No wonders the British have terrible spies."

Billy grunts, putting a little extra weight on Casey's shoulder as they step over a particularly large branch. "I will have you know that charm can be very effective."

"Violence is the only thing that is truly effective," Casey says curtly. "Everything else is just wasting time."

"You think the only thing that matters are steps forward, then," Billy muses with a huff.

"What? You advise going backward?" Casey asks, navigating them around a tree. "Or worse, standing still?"

"I can think of _worse _things," Billy murmurs.

Casey sighs, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, come on," Billy says. "Are you really so keen on dying for the cause?"

"Of course not," Casey snaps. "I'm entirely pragmatic. I don't want to die."

"And neither do I," Billy returns, puffing his chest up just a bit. "As far as I'm concerned, there are too many causes to die for and not nearly enough to live for."

Casey makes a face. "Did they teach you that drivel before or after they kicked you out of the country?"

"No," Billy says, voice drawn thin. "That's what I learned from working with a team these past few months."

Casey furrows his brow skeptically. "How's that working out for you right now?"

Billy snuffles, chortling wetly. "Present condition aside," he says. "Three months here has beat the hell out of my three years back home."

"Well, I could have told you that," Casey says snidely. "Queen and Country aren't all that you think they are."

"It's not that," Billy says, hissing as his foot catches on the ground. He works to correct himself, fist clenching against Casey's shoulder. "The problem was me, and it always was."

Casey glances at him, surprised. "That's the most rational thing I've ever heard you say."

Face lined with pain, Billy offers him a small smile. "I was a lot like you, I think," he says.

"Okay, now you're just being insulting-"

Billy shakes his head. "My eye was on the mission. It was about personal accomplishments and individual challenges," he says. "I did whatever was necessary to get the job done."

"Well," Casey says, gritting his teeth as Billy leans into him even more. "That's sort of part of the job description."

"Is it, though?" Billy says. "To be an unrepentant bastard at all times? We have to be accountable to someone."

"There is a hierarchy," Casey points out. "Even if it's stupid."

Billy nods at that. "Exactly," he says. "That's what I thought, and that's why I did what I deemed necessary, and I'm not bragging when I say that I saved a lot of lives. I didn't sit idle; I didn't think my way out of things; I just acted because I knew what was right, all the consequences be damned."

Casey considers that for a few paces. Finally, he tightens his grip on Billy's wrist. "And?"

"And I was deemed an unacceptable field risk," he says. "No one wanted anything to do with me, so when someone had to take the fall, I took it alone. Granted, I still think the right things happened, but if I had to do it again, I wouldn't have done it alone."

"Trust is a dangerous pastime in our line of work," Casey points out.

Billy inhales sharply, bracing himself as they turn around another tree. "Aye," Billy agrees. "But we're all on the shortlist here anyway, I reckon. The way I see it, we might as well die for someone that matters than a cause we can never live up to."

Casey focuses on the ground, keeping their paces as gentle and even as possible. "So that's why you thought to talk to the guy? Because you were afraid?"

Billy's smile is wry. "Honestly?"

"I think deception is tedious," Casey tells him.

"I was just thinking how I didn't want him to shoot you," Billy says. "My first instinct was to charge him, too, but I knew that would put you at risk. I might take it for myself, but with a team…."

Casey's stomach twists, and his chest aches dully. He'd had the same thoughts, but he'd taken the chance.

And the results speak for themselves.

Pressing his lips together in a thin line, Casey hauls him a little more roughly over the next few paces. "Maybe that's why teamwork is so overrated."

"I regret a lot of things," Billy says, voice sounding wispy now. "But not that."

Casey grunts. "That's because you're an idiot."

"Aye," Billy says with a low, weary chuckle. "That I am."

-o-

Casey doesn't believe in failure. He's not stupid. He knows things don't work out sometimes, but he refuses to accept anything less than perfection from himself. He can't control every variable, but he has a surprising amount of autonomy regarding most of them, so when he puts his mind to something, he's used to seeing it through to completion.

Except where a team is involved.

Because it's not just Casey.

No, it's Casey and Michael, the control freak, and Carson, the functional drunk, and Billy, the happy go lucky idiot.

In Casey's mind, he's going to get Billy to safety and that's going to be that. He'll file his transfer paperwork, and call this whole thing a somewhat interesting and mildly enlightening learning experience.

That's Casey's plan.

Billy, as it turns out, has other plans.

Namely, to stop.

His conversation has dwindled noticeably in the last twenty minutes, and Billy's sweat is starting to soak through Casey's shirt. The bandage is saturated with red, and Billy has gone from limping to stumbling to all out falling throughout the course of their sojourn. So when his legs finally go out, he's like a wet noodle, and Casey can only slow his descent while they both end up on the ground.

Annoyed, Casey grunts, already working himself back into position to hoist Billy back up. But the Scotsman shakes his head. "Just…hold up," he pants.

Scowling, Casey shakes his head. "Why would we stop? You're losing blood too fast," he says. "We have to move."

Billy drops his head back, laughing. "You answered your own question," he murmurs.

Casey sighs, wholly unamused. "I'm serious."

Lifting his head a little, Billy's eyes open. He looks even worse now, with a clammy complexion that is surely indicative of early shock. "So am I."

It's clear that Billy's reserves are running low. While this is a sign of Billy's lack of fortitude, Casey can't fault him too much. The kid is slowly bleeding out, and Casey knows there are certain things that mental surety can't overcome.

Even so, staying here will only make matters worse. Insistent, he jostles Billy's shoulders. "You're not dying here."

"That's a lovely sentiment," Billy muses, but he makes no effort to move. His brow creases and he takes several moments to breathe. "Maybe you should hike ahead," he suggests. "Meet up with the others and double back. I'm just slowing you down."

Casey shakes his head. "It'd be too long," he says. "Even at the slower pace you're moving, it's still faster to bring you with me than to come back."

"I've seen you move," Billy reasons. "You could do it."

"If I leave, then you're dead," Casey says flatly, because he doesn't believe in sugarcoating the truth.

Billy holds his gaze steady. "You don't know that."

"Yeah," Casey replies unflinchingly. "I do."

Billy inhales, flattening his lips for a moment. "Well," he says. "Seems a bit inevitable anyway."

Casey's brow darkens. "No, it's not. Inevitability is the same thing as giving up. I refuse to accept that."

"That's not accounting for fate," Billy murmurs, his eyelids starting to droop.

Casey handles him gruffly again, picking the other man up under the armpits and hauling him to his feet. "That's a cop out," he says. "You're walking."

Billy emits a low whine, his breathing catching sharply even if he doesn't have the strength to fight it. "That sounds like you care."

Adjusting his grip, Casey works his jaw, trying to keep Billy upright while the taller man is half draped over his shoulder. "You're being sentimental," he says. "We're teammates, not by choice or any kind of design, but that means I'm obligated to consider your well being. It's a duty, and I don't fail my duties. You're not going to die because I'm obligated to save your life. Don't confuse tenacity with actual concern."

Billy's legs are moving to some degree, though he's uncoordinated and heavy on Casey's shoulder. "Sometimes I reckon they're the same, especially with the likes of you. I admit, I can't quite figure you out."

"Well, time to learn," Casey says.

"I think I've made an honest effort," Billy says. "Sometimes I think I've got it all sorted, but then some idiot shoots me."

"You're the idiot," Casey tells him. "You basically put a target on your chest."

Billy lets out a long breath. "That's not what I'm talking about."

Casey scowls. "Then what _are _you talking about because, honestly, I have no idea."

"About_ fate,_" Billy says.

"There's no such thing as fate," Casey says in no uncertain terms. "There's just the logical next step."

Billy shakes his head, dragging his feet over several more paces. "My life has had no logical steps," he says. "Just jarring ones."

"Well," Casey says, trying to keep his grip firm while avoiding the wound in Billy's side. "That's probably because you're an idiot, like I've already established."

A ghost of a smile passes over Billy's face. "Probably," he agrees, and lets the point stand.

Casey should find the acquiescence agreeable.

In all honesty, he's not sure why he doesn't.

It doesn't matter, though. They still have a long walk ahead, and Casey's not going to fail.

Not when his career - and Billy's life - depends on it.

-o-

With Billy's tenacity, they make it about another ten minutes. By Casey's sheer fortitude, they make it another 20 after that. Billy's sagging heavily on Casey now, and it's almost more work trying to keep the Scotsman upright than it would be just to carry him outright. But Billy's feet are still moving - somehow - and Casey doesn't see a lot of palatable alternatives.

He just has to keep Billy walking.

Which means he has to keep Billy awake.

It's all a means to an end. Namely, an end where Casey can leave this team and forge his career in a new, less cumbersome direction.

The best way of doing this is to think like Billy. That much is a bit horrifying to Casey, but he's a spy. He's used to doing undesirable things for a better end.

"So," Casey says, nudging the other man slightly while he drags him along. "The mission that got you kicked out. What did you do exactly?"

Billy chuckles, his head still bobbed forward.

"Did you try to kill the queen?" Casey asks. "Because I have to admit, that might make me respect you more."

Billy lifts his head tiredly. "Now, of all times, you want to make small talk?"

"I am capable of charm," Casey says nonchalantly. "I just don't find it particularly effective."

"Your delivery is lacking," Billy concurs as they limp along. "But I'm sure with a little practice…."

When he trails off, his head goes down again, all his energy fixed on making his feet move forward it seems. After several more paces of silence, Casey nudges him again. "You still didn't answer the question."

Billy cranes his neck up again. "What, you have genuine interest in my life?"

Casey shrugs one shoulder. "I am curious where the Brits draw their line in the sand," he says. "Did you skip tea time once too often?"

"Sacrilege," Billy murmurs. "Nothing so tawdry."

"That doesn't answer the question," Casey points out.

"And it wasn't intended to," Billy returns.

Casey furrows his brow. "I thought you were the friendly one."

"Charm," Billy says with effort. "Is a farce. It's a distraction. It lets people think you're giving them everything they want when, in fact, you are offering them nothing."

"So charm is nothing but effective lying?" Casey asks.

Billy smiles. "Worked on you."

Grunting, Casey shifts his grip.

Billy inhales sharply, face paling again. His body starts to slip, and it's all Casey can do to keep him standing.

Face pinched, Casey tries a different approach. "So do you want to go back?" he asks.

Billy takes a wheezing breath, looking up almost in confusion.

"To England," Casey says. "Or Scotland. Or wherever the hell you're from."

"I was given the option of jail time or exile," Billy says. "I'm not sure that's really an option."

"I didn't ask if you_ could,_" Casey says, successfully lugging them both over a large branch. "I asked if you wanted to."

Billy sighs a little, head dropping forward. "I try not to think about it."

"Well, America's not all bad, right?" Casey prods. "The CIA has its merits?"

Billy laughs wetly, stumbling. "I'll admit, I've found the team quite welcoming," he says. "Present company as an exception."

"You're good with a team," Casey says.

Billy looks up. "A compliment?"

Casey snorts. "You need complementary agents to be successful," he says. "I wouldn't call it an asset."

"But is it really a weakness?" Billy presses.

Casey makes a face. "I don't think I fully understand the point," he says. "I go on missions; I do the job; but I don't see how it's any better this way."

"There are people who have your back," Billy says. "People who will carry your pathetic, bleeding body back through the woods."

Or step in front of bullets when there's no need at all.

Casey shakes his head. "It's not for me, I think," he says. "Three years since Michael recruited me for the ODS, and I don't think I belong here at all."

"You're a brilliant part of the team," Billy protests. "You said it yourself, perfect complements."

"It's too tedious," Casey says. "We're always doing something in some ass-backward way that goes against my nature."

"And that's a bad thing?" Billy asks.

"I've honed my mind and body to perfection," Casey says, feeling somewhat indignant.

"Then why did you join the team in the first place?"

That's a fair question, and it's still a question that matters. Casey joined because he was looking for something, something that he hasn't found. "I was looking for the next step."

"We all have to stop somewhere," Billy muses.

"Not me," Casey says, keeping his eyes forward again. "If we stop, we die."

"And they call me melodramatic," Billy says.

Casey rolls his eyes. "It's not so crazy to think that there's another step waiting for me to take it."

Billy shrugs. "I reckon not," he agrees. "But it's also not so crazy to think you might belong here, with us."

Casey gives him a look. "What on earth could possibly lead you to that decision?"

Billy manages to lift his head, eyes twinkling slightly. "I'm good at reading people."

Casey waits, as if for a punchline. When none is forthcoming, he shakes his head. "There you go," he says dourly. "Solidifying my opinion of you as a complete and total idiot."

Billy snickers wearily. "Well, I'd hate to disappoint you now."

-o-

Resolve goes so far.

Charm goes even less.

Ultimately, there are limits that the body imposes that cannot be overcome. It's nearly an hour into their trek when Billy goes down and doesn't get back up.

Casey curses, trying and failing to support the loose limbed Scotsman, who remains frustratingly pliant beneath his touch. He shakes Billy's shoulder before slapping him across the face, which elicits no more than a muted mewl of vague protest.

He's out, though. His complexion is too pale, his pulse is too slow, and his skin is too clammy. The wound on his side is still leaking blood, and that's that. Billy's not going to be getting up again, not without medical intervention. And even then, Casey knows the other operative's odds are starting to dwindle.

The idea of failure is not desirable, but in this context, Casey finds it unacceptable. Not just because he told himself he'd do it, but because Billy had been so damn confident about his decision to get himself shot. It's something to put yourself in the line of fire, and it's another to have no regrets when it goes wrong. Casey can respect that much in the kid, and it doesn't seem fair. Casey's the one who wants out, not Billy. Billy feels like he's finding himself on this team. He probably sees this as his second chance, his last chance.

And besides, Casey promised him. Casey doesn't make promises lightly, and though it's not like Billy could blame him for failure, Casey doesn't want to go out like this.

He won't.

Looking up, he surveys the forest and mentally calculates how much farther they have to go. They're over half way there, but it's still enough distance to be concerning. Not that Casey can't make it, but Billy has been slowing him down. Now that he's unconscious, Casey may actually be able to move faster, but there's not a lot of time to work with here.

If Casey's going to pull this off, he's going to need to run. And fast. There will be no time to hesitate or second guess or to slow down and catch his breath. If Billy's going to survive, Casey will need to give everything he has - and probably then some.

To some, this task might seem daunting. Casey knows it'll be one hell of a feat, even for him.

But Casey is undaunted. And he does not doubt his ability to succeed.

Billy's going to survive; Casey will make sure of that.

Determined, he hauls the younger man up, positioning him over his shoulder. He steadies himself for a moment, then turns toward the forest and starts to run.

-o-

In so many ways, this is easier. With Billy unconscious, there's no distracting talk. Casey doesn't have to worry about the other man's dignity. At last, it's just Casey and his own fortitude. He gets to determine the pace; he cuts the path. There's no one to consult; there's no one to debate with.

This is how it should be. It's just so much more certain this way. Casey picking all his steps, the author of his own story, the catalyst of his own so-called fate. No one is slowing him down. No one is messing him up. There's no one to second guess, to distract, to frustrate, to be bothered with.

It's what he wants. His own consequences. His own choices.

One step after another.

Bearing down, he picks up the pace, pushing his own limits for no other fact than he can. Nothing can hold him back; nothing will.

One step.

After another.

One step-

Then, his foot catches. There's a glint of metal, and a snick of a gear as it releases. At first, almost irrationally, Casey thinks it's a landmine, and he tries to bring himself to a skidding halt in a vain attempt to delay the detonation. He falters, the forward momentum sending Billy plummeting to the ground. Casey braces, heart pounding, but it's no matter, though. Nothing explodes.

Instead, the mechanism snaps shut, the rusted claws of a bear trap clinching tight around Casey's ankle.

-o-

Casey allows himself about ten seconds for shock.

The pain is intense, radiating from the wound up his leg. The shock of it has left him shaky, and he feels uncharacteristically weak. For those ten seconds, he focuses his energy on the simple act of breathing.

After that, he affords himself no more than five seconds for regret.

A bear trap. He's stepped in a bear trap. That's an unlucky turn of events, and it's entirely an amateur move. Casey knows better. But he'd been so focused on going forward that he'd missed all the obvious things right in front of him.

Five seconds is too much. Regret is a useless emotion.

Then, he clenches his jaw and faces the inevitable. Injury or not, Casey still has to be in control. He's completed missions under duress before. He's done amazing feats with gunshots, knife wounds, head injuries, and more.

He has to admit, this is a new one for him.

Making a face, he pulls his ankle closer gingerly, trying to get a better look. Casey's not squeamish, but his stomach still churns at the sight.

It's not a pretty wound.

But then, very few are.

Still, Casey has to admit, this one is more garish than most. He blames it on the crude craftsmanship and the years of disuse. He doesn't know if this was ever a particularly good bear trap, but he can honestly say it's effective. The snap was too fast to avoid, and it was well hidden among the brush. Casey hadn't been paying attention.

The rusted metal teeth snapping into his flesh, however, had got his attention pretty quick.

Frowning, he forces back the pain with a grunt of annoyance. His vision threatens to fade out on him, but he ignores it willfully, running his fingers along the trap with care. It's not easy to see around the fabric of his pants and the blood, but there are at least ten teeth, each embedded to a different degree in his ankle. Some, around the sides, have barely broken the flesh. The ones toward the front, however.

Well, Casey knows what it's like to have a broken bone.

Now he's fairly sure he knows what it's like to have one splintered.

In his mind, he runs over the list of complications. If the damage is too severe, blood flow could be compromised to his foot and he could suffer nerve damage. Given the state of the trap, the teeth could easily be contaminated, which could lead to all sorts of infection and possibly sepsis. It's not bleeding too much since the trap is still in place, but when it's off, he'll be susceptible to copious amounts of blood loss.

The safest solution is to call to update his location and ensure that immediate medical extraction is available. Before removing the trap, there should be fresh gauze and plenty of fluids ready to wash out the wounds. A meticulous check for foreign bodies in the wound would be preferable, and antibiotics are a must.

That's the safest solution.

But that's not the solution Casey's going to choose. Because medical extraction is already on the way, and Casey's no more than a half mile away. All he has to do is drag himself the rest of the way there.

Well, that and drag Billy with him.

Casey looks to the side, where Billy is sprawled next to him. He's been unconscious for twenty minutes now. He didn't even wake up when Casey took his misstep. It's the blood loss, no doubt. He's in shock from the gut shot three miles back. Casey promised to carry him out. He promised Billy that no one was dying.

He'd _promised._

Billy looks even worse than before and the strained sound of his breathing is audible. He's running out of time. If Casey calls it in, if he makes someone come after them, it'll be too late.

It may cost Casey his foot.

But it'll save Billy's life.

Ultimately, it's no decision at all. Casey has a responsibility. Casey made a promise. He's gone too far into this to turn back now. Casey will not accept failure, not when there's still a way left to fight.

Gritting his teeth, Casey shrugs out of his t-shirt. He'd already sacrificed his overshirt for Billy, so this will have to do. He rips it in two, wrapping as much as he can around his hands and fingers. Grunting, he shifts, looking for the weakest, most accessible spot in the trap. He analyzes it without emotion, and then reaches his fingers in experimentally to see how good of a grip he can get.

It's not great, but he seems to have enough leverage. He should be able to pry it open and hold it long enough to extract his foot. It won't be easy, of course, given that he has to get his foot clear while holding the sharp prongs in his exposed fingers. One wrong move and he's likely to lose a few fingers along with his foot.

Casey won't make another wrong move, though.

He can't.

With one last deep breath, he doesn't overthink it. He knows what he needs to do. He bears down and pulls.

The pain is intense, the surge of blood flow almost shocking. The tender flesh screams out from the abuse and the metal cuts into Casey's fingers as he forces himself to pull harder.

He's sweating; he's panting; for a second, he thinks he can't do it.

But failure is not an option.

Leveraging another burst of energy, he pries the trap further open and drags his foot out. The damaged limb protests, but Casey is vicious as he gets it clear. The second it's out, he half throws the trap, listening as it closes in on itself with a sickening clank.

For a moment, he blinks rapidly, working to control his breathing. That's it, he thinks.

He looks at Billy.

That's not it.

Hastily, he uses the strips of his shirt to bandage his foot. It's not an effective bandage, but it'll do for the last half mile.

Decided, he grimaces, using a nearby tree to get his footing. He almost cries out, but cuts himself off, smothering the pain viciously with every technique he knows. Pain is another worthless emotion.

Determination, however.

Determination, Casey can use.

Putting weight on his foot is almost impossible, but he can do just enough to manage a loping run. It'll do terrible damage to the bone, no doubt. He'll need surgery - and then lots of therapy, assuming he doesn't cripple himself in the process.

But he promised Billy that he'd get him out.

Reaching down, he pulls the limp Scotsman up, cursing bitterly as the heavier weight nearly knocks him down. It's a precarious thing to get Billy up and over his shoulder, and for a second, everything threatens to go black.

Still, Casey shakes it away and takes a step.

Casey's going to keep that promise, even if it's the last thing he does.

He takes another step, and another. The pain is shooting up his leg, but he can hardly feel it now. He can hardly feel anything at all except the weight of Billy across his shoulders.

Casey's going to keep that promise.

No matter what.

-o-

It's no different now. For Casey's it's always been the same. One step after another, going forward at all costs. Moving ahead, pushing the boundaries, never standing still. Casey believes he has to keep challenging himself. If there's not a goal in front of him, he'll start to atrophy.

That's not an option for Casey. He's worked too hard for too long.

One step after another.

Billy is a dead weight across his shoulders, the warm blood forming a sticky patch across Casey's back. Billy is bigger than he is, and normally that wouldn't be a problem, except…

Except Casey's leg is in agony.

Casey knows how to handle pain, and he's always done so with stoic aplomb. But this-

This is unrelenting, nonstop torture. Every step feels worse than the last. For the first time in his life, he wants to stop. He wants to go to his knees and just give up. He can feel the muscles burning; he can feel the bone grinding. His toes are numb and blood is collecting in his shoe, squishing with every pace. The pain runs white hot up his leg, tingling into his hip and cording around his lungs until it hurts to breathe.

One more step, he tells himself.

This is his duty. This is his responsibility. This is his only choice. The success of this mission rests with him, just how it should be. The success will be his.

So would the failure.

That's how it's supposed to be. He dictates the pace; he determines the path. This is a good thing, he tells himself, even as the edges of his vision start to go gray from the pain.

Steadying his breathing, he forces himself through the pain.

One more step.

One more step.

His awareness tunnels. His sense of time and space dwindles. He exists in a small, singular vacuum, just him and the weight on his shoulders, pushing forward, pushing on.

One step.

If he stops, then it's over.

It occurs to him that the cost of going forward may be more than he bargained for.

He's light headed; he's struggling to breathe. His feet fall heavier now, his vision blurred and spotted. He doesn't know if Billy's still alive over his shoulder, but at this point, it doesn't matter.

Casey's made a promise.

Casey's made a plan.

It's up to Casey.

One more step.

One step.

Because if he's not moving forward, then it's over.

His breathing catches, frozen in his lungs. His muscles seize up and his vision goes dark as the pain eclipses everything. He's falling, Billy slipping from his numb fingers as the world starts to cave in on itself.

It's _over._

-o-

It's a strange moment.

Casey has given everything he has. He has pooled all of his self control and utilized every ounce of fortitude he has ever known - and then some. He has moved an actual distance, carrying another man on his shoulders, while nursing a badly mutilated ankle. Casey has pushed his body to its limits; he has ravaged his mind for the depths of strength he had never had to check before. He has given everything.

And for the first time in his life, he's come up short.

In some ways, it's disappointing, but in some ways, Casey is just glad to know. It's comforting, somehow, to think there's an end point. To know there's a stopping place. To know that even Casey Malick has his limits.

He's a proud man, but he's not stupid. There's no shame in admitting when it's over. Limits are empowering, after all. If you don't know your boundaries, then you can't figure out how to break them in the future.

At least, that would be the case if Casey had a future.

He's spent his whole life moving forward. There's a whole world out there, and Casey's not sentimental about seeing places and meeting people, but he appreciates the breadth of the challenges he's not had the chance to accomplish. He's kept moving forward because being idle has scared him. He's scared to stand still because he doesn't know if he can still flourish. He doesn't know if it's possible to be happy when you've already attained everything there is to grasp.

Too many people see what's ahead as the great unknown, but for Casey, it's always been the status quo that threatens him.

The choice isn't his anymore. No, this time Casey is falling and he has no way to stop it. He will fail, and the only solace is that he gave everything he had.

Literally.

The ground rushes up to meet him, though, and he reflects vaguely that's not much solace at all.

He never hits the ground.

Someone catches him, breathing a curse as the weight is lifted from his shoulders. He's pulled back, body drawn out until he's lowered gently to the ground. He blinks hazily, only somewhat conscious as Michael appears above him, brow furrowed in concern. His mouth is moving, but Casey can't make out the words.

It's irrelevant anyway.

Because Casey's body has given out, but that doesn't mean the fight is over. No, it's Michael's turn now. Michael and Carson. His team.

And that, he realizes, _is _a solace. They can get Billy out. They can dress the wound. They can even get Casey out and possibly try to save his foot.

Teamwork.

Casey closes his eyes.

It's a very, very strange moment.

-o-

In his time at the CIA, Casey has accomplished many things. Many of his missions are so impressive that no one has ever even been able to link the United States to the implications whatsoever. Casey's worked undercover; he's thwarted criminal masterminds; he's saved thousands of lives. He's worked on every continent in the world, and he's completed unparalleled physical feats. Casey Malick is a force in and of himself.

Even with all this, he has to admit, this is a new one for him.

He comes to hazily, blinking blearily at the ceiling in the car. His body is effused with pain, but the intensity has receded along with the acuity of his consciousness. It's a little like floating, which is oddly fascinating and equally unsettling.

Casey's not in control anymore.

All his work; all his training; he's dedicated his life to retaining ultimate control over himself.

Now, all that's gone. At this point, it's all Casey can do to stay conscious. Even that is probably a tenuous thing.

Someone slams a door, and he hears Carson curse. "This is crazy, Michael," he says. "I don't even know who's worse."

There's movement next to Casey's head, and he tilts his gaze just enough to see Michael. "We don't really have a choice," he says, eyes on something on his other side.

The car rumbles to life, and Casey feels the gears shift as it lurches forward. "Do we have enough of a local cover in place for two operatives in the hospital?"

"We'll make it work," Michael replies. "But you could sure as hell go faster."

The car jerks a little, rocking them as they hit a rut in the road. The pain intensifies for a moment, and Casey's vision threatens to go white, but he steels himself and keeps his eyes willfully open.

"You know, this isn't what I signed up for," Carson mutters from the front seat.

Michael's jaw works. "Me neither," he says. "But this is what we've got, and I'm not losing any operatives today, okay?"

That sounds strangely familiar.

Casey wonders if it's possible that they all come from different places just to end up in the exact same place. Not just a team, but a place where they belong. Different but complementary parts.

"How are they?" Carson asks from the front.

Michael lets out a breath. "Collins is pretty shocky," he says. "I'm keeping on the pressure, but he's lost a lot of volume."

Casey tilts his head even further, looking past Michael to the figure slumped on the other side of the backseat. Billy's sprawled lifelessly against the seat, and there's blood smeared everywhere, including Michael's hands as he presses down hard on the wound.

"And Malick?" Carson asks.

Michael's eyes turn to Casey, and they make eye contact. Michael studies him for a moment, and Casey thinks to say something but realizes he has no idea what.

"Still hanging in there," Michael reports finally with a hint of a smile. "He's a tough son of a bitch."

Carson snorts from the front. "Glad he's on our side," he says. "I still can't believe he dragged Billy back on a busted foot."

"Saved his life," Michael concurs, eyes still on Casey. "At one hell of a personal cost."

It's not a passing comment, and it's as much to Casey as it is to Carson. Because Michael understands Casey, even in ways that Casey hasn't come to admit yet. There's a reason Michael recruited him to be on this team.

And there's a reason Casey said yes.

Not just that it was the next step.

But that it was the best step.

From the front seat, Carson curses again. "You sure you know where we're going with this whole thing?"

"Not exactly," Michael admits. "But we keep going forward - together - and we'll make the rest work from there."

Somehow, that much is comforting.

Billy's alive, and so is Casey. Michael's got a plan, and Carson's got his hand on the wheel. Casey did what he could.

Now his team can do the rest.

At least, Casey hopes so.

The car takes another sharp turn, and the momentum nearly throws Casey off the seat. Michael reaches out with one hand to brace him, and even though he stops Casey from tumbling to the floor, the movement jars Casey's foot.

Hard.

Pain flares; Casey's breathing catches. He thinks to hold on, to keep holding on, and Casey tells himself this isn't surrender.

But it still doesn't change the fact that it's a form of defeat when the darkness takes him.

-o-

Casey wakes up to the sound of someone speaking Russian. A woman in scrubs stands over him. She smiles, pulling off her gloves with a snap before she nods in a perfunctory fashion and leaves.

So, Casey deduces, he's made it to the hospital.

Although he hates to give up control, he has to admit he doesn't mind missing out on the rest of the car ride. Excruciating pain aside, being out of control is actually rather boring.

And frustrating.

He starts to turn his head, hoping to find a nurse who speaks English, when Michael steps into view.

He looks horrible. His hair is askew, and there's a smudge of blood on his face. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes making him look older than he is.

Casey takes a breath, finding the pain manageable. Clearly, he's on some good drugs at this point, which is annoying but probably necessary. "The camera," he says thickly. "Is it okay?"

"Yeah, it's safe," Michael says. He glances around for a second. "Though your sightseeing photos are really low on our list of concerns."

The implications are clear. First, the data is still intact, which means the mission isn't a total failure. Second, their covers are holding. Third, they can't let up their guard, now more than ever.

Fourth, they really do have other concerns.

Casey licks his lips. "Billy?"

Michael's gaze narrows a little. "You don't need to worry about that."

It's a brush off, and Casey finds that insulting. "I'm not that bad off," he says. "I can handle news on his condition."

"You don't even know how bad off you are," Michael points out.

"It still hurts, so I figured I still have a foot, right?" Casey asks. "And these doctors can't be complete idiots, can they?"

"They're taking you up to surgery, you know," Michael says. "Try to clean out the wound and assess the internal damage. You're already showing signs of infection."

Casey has known all this from the moment he stepped in the trap. He's not stupid; in fact, if anyone knows the risks he takes, it's him. Casey doesn't need to be lectured about the risk of losing his foot or developing an infection that might ultimately kill him.

No, Casey just needs to know about Billy.

"All the more reason to know it was worth it," Casey says tersely. "I risked a lot to save his life, and I want to know he's not gone and screwed it up by dying."

Michael watches him for a moment. Finally, he nods. "Billy's in surgery," he says. "They've already put a few units into him, so it's a little touch and go, but despite the blood loss, they're talking optimistically."

Casey sighs, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Good," he says, settling back against the gurney. "That's good."

Michael shakes his head with a low chuckle. "Just when I think I have you figured out, you still surprise me."

"What?" Casey asks, feeling more annoyed now.

"You care about this kid," he says.

"I care about the job we agreed to do," Casey says. "And part of that is making sure we all come home."

"You could lose your foot," Michael points out. "And you're asking about him."

"I made him a promise, just like I made you and Carson a promise," Casey says.

"No one would have blamed you," Michael says. "You stepped in a bear trap."

"So, what?" Casey asks. "I should have let him die?"

"You really don't see it, do you?" Michael asks, cocking his head curiously.

Casey makes a face. "See what?"

"That being a part of a team has changed you."

Casey scoffs. "I never would let someone die when I could save them, especially if I'm working with them."

"No," Michael agrees. "But three years ago, you'd be more worried about your leg. I know you; you prioritize the most important things. And here, right now, you're putting Billy's well being above your own. That's not responsibility. That's not duty. That's something more."

"Look," Casey hisses. "It was just, I don't know. The next step, I guess."

Michael smiles, patting Casey on the shoulder fondly. "Well, for the next step I want you to focus on yourself," he says. "You've got a hell of a fight ahead of you."

Casey puffs up his chest as best he can while lying prostrate in a hospital bed. "Then I guess it's good I never lose a fight."

Michael nods. "Just remember," he says. "This time you're not fighting alone."

It's a platitude; it has no meaning.

So Casey's not sure why it makes him feel so much better.

-o-

He's quite conscious when they take him up to surgery. Michael goes as far as he can, and he can see the other man lingering just behind a pair of double swinging doors, trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. For all that Michael has chided him, the other operative cares about Casey.

Then, Michael's never quite denied it as stridently as Casey.

In the operating room, he's transferred to the table. His foot feels oddly heavy, and when he looks down, he sees it's in a bulky bandage. The doctors start to adjust the gauze when a nurse stands above him with a perfunctory smile.

"Please," she says in heavily accented English. "Count back from 100."

Someone puts a mask to his face, and Casey can smell the gas. More than that, he feels it, easing into his system with the force of a freight train.

Still, he's Casey Malick. It's a bit pointless because he knows that no one is supposed to make it to 90, but somehow, he feels like he needs to try.

Counting is just like taking steps.

One logical progression, right after another.

Gruffly, he exhales. "100," he starts, settling himself down and blinking a few times. "99, 98, 97-"

He hears the voices of the medical team; he sees someone drape him with a sheet when his gown is pulled away.

"96, 95, 94-"

His head feels light now, and the only thing grounding him is the weight in his foot. In a way, he can almost feel the metal teeth, grinding against the bone, like he's still tied down against his will in the forest.

"93, 92, 91-"

But then he remembers Billy. He remembers Michael and Carson. He remembers there's still a reason to fight.

"90, 89-"

There's still a reason.

That's enough.

Call it strength, call it weakness, but it's enough.

-o-

Casey doesn't stop counting. Backward from 100, from the operating room to the forest floor to the start of the mission. He's scowling and complaining. "I am a man of too many skills to take _photos._"

To Billy's first day, over eager and nervous. The kid is scared, but he's too annoying for Casey to bother acknowledging that. That's not how Casey operates, anyway.

And before that, Casey's joining the team. Michael has talked him into it, but Casey just wants a challenge. "Trust me," Michael says. "We never do anything the easy way."

But it goes earlier, to his years as a loner in the field. Top secret missions, high level marks. He's everyone and no one; he's everywhere and nowhere. He saves lives; he takes lives.

In China, Linda tells him that it doesn't have to be this way. She tells him that they're good together. "Yeah," he says. "But I'm better apart."

It's hard to imagine, Casey as the new guy. What he lacks in experience, he has in skill. "I have a lot of operatives," Higgins says.

"Yeah," Casey replies. "But you'll never have one like me."

And Casey's serving in the military, and he's going to college. He's graduating from high school, and he's living under his father's roof. "No son of mine will sit idle," he lectures. "I expect something from you, boy."

These are the steps, Casey realizes. All the next steps he's taken, one right after another. This is the journey; this is the path that's led him into the jaws of a bear trap. Each one has made sense; every one has been right. But now that he's here, he's not sure where to go next.

For the first time in his life, Casey is at a crossroad and he doesn't know what path to take.

Hell, he's not sure he wants to go anywhere at all. Maybe it's time to sit down in the middle of the road and let it happen.

Maybe it's time to stop.

Maybe it's time to count backward to zero and accept there's no place else left he actually wants to go.

-o-

Casey comes through surgery. He is vaguely aware as the doctors poke him in the recovery ward. They lift and turn him, speaking in hushed Russian tones and he's about to ask how it went when someone touches his calf and pain erupts through his body.

An alarm blares, and he's hastily laid back against the bed. The voices pick up, and he's flat on his back with a bright light in his eyes.

Then the whiteness collects, so bright that darkness inevitable and indubitably follows.

-o-

The pain recedes but the heat takes its place. Casey is trapped by it, locked in a battle he's not sure he can win. He's endured jungles and deserts, and he's literally run through flames, but this burns from the inside. It takes his intentions and abilities and sets them ablaze like kindling. All that he is, all that he's tried to be, it's burning up here. It consumes his foot, licking up his leg, threatening to take all of him.

This is the fever, he knows. This is the infection he knew was coming. His body is finely tuned; his fortitude is expertly honed. Casey's devoted his life to making himself the best that he can be. He has no equal.

None of it matters now.

One step makes all the difference.

Just one step.

-o-

"Easy, easy," Carson mutters, giving Casey's wrist an awkward squeeze. "You're a son of a bitch, Malick. Don't disappoint me now."

Casey grunts, eyes opening to slits, but nothing's in focus.

"I don't actually know what I'd do without you," Carson quips. "Get myself killed, probably. I need you, buddy. I need you to watch my back."

That much is true, but Casey can't find the strength to retort.

"We need you," Carson says again, a little quieter now. He squeezes again. "Come on, Casey. Come back to us."

Now, that's a thought.

It's steps forward, but it's steps backward, too.

And maybe no matter which way he goes, he's not going to be alone.

-o-

Carson takes the days, but Michael spends the nights. Casey's not sure how he pulls it off, but he knows better than to doubt Michael Dorset. Casey's a son of a bitch, but Michael's a bastard, and for what Casey has in fortitude, Michael has in recourse.

The fever, somehow, is worse at night. During the day, he sleeps between the doses of medication, lulled into a hazy stupor by Carson's recycled stories of the glory days. But when the drugs taper off, and his temperature rises, he finds himself clawing at his own sanity, just trying to stay together.

He's not sure how long he's been here. He's not sure if he still has a foot. He doesn't know if Billy's alive.

But he knows his team is here.

His team never left.

It's true that Casey doesn't need them.

But it may also be true that he doesn't mind having them around after all.

-o-

It gets worse.

Casey's been through a lot of things. He's never flinched; he's never complained; he's hardly even winced.

But this…

This is like facing the gates of hell and not knowing which way to go.

The fire builds on all sides. Forward or backward, left or right, maybe it's all the same. There are infinite possibilities, and somehow none of the choices matter.

He wants to know if he still has a foot.

He wants to know if his team is still there.

He wants to know where Billy is.

He doesn't know which way to go.

It seems that the only thing left is to count down to zero, open his eyes and make peace with whatever's out there. No more logical steps.

Just jarring ones.

And the simple trust that it will end up the way it should.

-o-

Then, Casey wakes up.

If it sounds simple, that much sort of is. Casey's aware that time has passed, and he knows it's more time than he'd like to admit. He's tired and worn; he's weak and weary. But the fever has spiked, and he's on the other side.

For a moment, he stares at the ceiling, feeling somewhat embarrassed. It's not a fun thing to be delusional - in fact, it's essentially Casey's worst nightmare to be that out of control of his own faculties - but there's nothing to be done for it now. Besides, he did step in a rusty bear trap and drag Billy to safety.

That thought shifts his attention.

Billy.

The last time he saw Billy, the younger operative was dangerously hypovolemic. For all that Michael and Carson had stood by him, they hadn't exactly been forthcoming with information about, well, anything.

Even though he's weak from what he can assume is a long period of inactivity and supplement nutrition, he's still Casey Malick. He lifts his head marginally, tilting it to the side, bracing himself as his stomach roils and his vision darkens for a moment.

"Easy, mate," Billy croons. "You're going to need a wee bit more rest."

For a moment, Casey thinks it's possible that he's still hallucinating, all things considered.

But he's weak and pained and totally coherent.

Blinking, he forces his gaze to narrow and rolls his head all the way to the side. He's not in a private room, unfortunately.

He does know his roommate, though.

From the other bed, Billy grins. "You look horrible."

Casey scoffs, ignoring how it taxes his body. Because he has no doubt that he's not in prime condition, but it's not exactly Billy's place to say anything. The other man looks unduly pasty, and there are thick whiskers growing in on his cheeks and chin. The bags under his eyes are pronounced, and his hair, which is always a bit unruly, is flat and greasy on his head.

"Like you're one to talk," Casey quips, and even though his voice is a bit rough, he's pleased with the tone.

Billy indulges him with another smile. "I take objection to that," he says. "The nurses have found me quite charming."

"Don't confuse pity with affection," Casey warns.

"They've saved the pity for you," Billy returns without missing a beat. "You've spent the better part of the last week in the ICU, lingering on the critical list with a nasty case of septicemia. They thought you might not make it, but don't worry. I defended you, said there was no way you'd let this beat you. I told them, you'd come out unscathed, foot and all."

That's when Casey remembers: his foot.

He looks down quickly, too fast to realize that he probably looks concerned.

Billy chuckles. "It's still there," he says. "Nasty looking wound, but everything appears to be intact. Now that your fever is finally under control, I fully expect that you will be up and about in no time."

Concentrating, Casey flexes his toes experimentally. It feels horrible with shooting pains and burning agony, but he takes that as a good sign. He can work with pain.

Billy takes a breath, hesitating slightly. "All that said, you did push my resolve," he says. "No need to cut it so close, eh?"

Casey looks up from his foot, eyes on Billy again. He could lecture the kid about sentimentality and attachment. He could remind Billy that it's Casey's tenacity that gave Billy a chance to stay alive at all. Those things are all true.

But they all sort of miss the point.

He sighs. "What about you?"

Billy lifts his eyebrows, as if genuinely surprised by the inquiry. "Me?"

Casey grimaces. "The last time I saw you, you had almost bled out," he says.

Billy gives him a funny look. "A little emergency surgery is all," he says, gesturing to the bulky bandage under the blankets. "Well, that and a few units of blood and packed cells. Nothing much to write home about."

"No complications?" Casey asks.

"I've been conscious the better part of the week," Billy informs him. "Hurts like hell, but I'll be back on active duty before you are."

This is a relief in many ways, not that Casey wants to admit that. The fact that he cares is almost as annoying as the fact that it's true. He _will _be on sick leave for an extended period of time.

"But it's maybe for the best," Billy continues, keeping his voice upbeat. "This will give you plenty of time, I reckon."

"Time for what?" Casey mutters.

"To decide on the next step," Billy tells him earnestly. "I know you were thinking about a transfer, and with how much Higgins hates the ODS, I imagine he'd only be too glad to break us up a bit. You could go wherever you want."

The next step. Something twists in Casey's chest, leaving him inexplicably pained. It takes him a long moment to realize it's not actually a physical sensation.

It's emotion.

Damn it.

He hates that, but then, he also can't deny it.

He cares about his team. It's not just duty or obligation: he cares about his team.

And worse still, they care about him. Billy would jump in front of a bullet. Michael and Carson would stand by him, no matter what. Casey doesn't need a team, and he might be more effective away from them, but he's better_ with _them.

All his life, he's wanted to move forward. He's always gauged things in terms of what he can accomplish and what barriers he can break. But when all is said and done, Casey is more than a list of accomplishments. He doesn't believe in fate or any such nonsense, but he knows that some things are truly for the best.

He's been restless, this much is true, but that's not because he has to move on.

He's restless because he's afraid of what it means to be dependent on other people.

He's afraid that the next step isn't a step forward.

He's afraid that it's a jarring step, kept in tandem with his team.

It's not an easy realization, although it is the only one that makes sense. He may accept that, but he eyes Billy critically. That doesn't mean he's going to admit to it readily.

Pursing his lips, he manages to pull off an annoyed look with relative ease. "I suppose there's no rush on that."

Billy has the audacity to look surprised - the bastard. "Oh?"

"This is a long recovery," Casey says, as nonchalantly as possible. "It should give all of us plenty of time to think about the next step."

Billy trains his face to not look amused, but it's clear that he already knows where Casey is going with this. But he's clearly going to make Casey say it. "All of us?"

It's tempting to tell Billy to go to hell and to call up Langley and ask for the damn transfer paperwork. But that'd be a bit like cutting off his nose to spite his face, and Casey hates a gloating Scotsman, but he knows some sacrifices must be made.

"I was just thinking, given how you almost got yourself killed back there, leaving the team would make you all vulnerable," he says. "I can accomplish more on my own, but the impact of our collective worth will still exceed that. Leaving would be selfish and short sighted, given how much you would all suffer without me."

Billy nods. "So you're staying for us."

"As a favor to you," Casey amends.

"Because you care about us," Billy concludes.

"Because it's the next logical step," Casey clarifies.

"That we're going to take together," Billy ventures.

Casey glares at him. "Don't make me change my mind."

Billy grins impishly. "I, for one, am looking forward to seeing where the path leads us," he announces, settling back a bit. "Should be quite an adventure."

Casey rolls his eyes. "Just try not to get shot."

"And you avoid those bear traps," Billy adds.

With a small harrumph, Casey looks back at the ceiling. "Noted."

There's a lull, and Casey lets himself relax again. It's still awkward, but somehow it's less so. Vulnerability isn't so scary when it's shared, somehow, and while it's not Casey's favorite thing, he can think of worse things.

"Thank you, by the way," Billy says.

Casey glances at him.

"For saving my life," he concludes.

Casey shrugs. "That's what teammates do, right?"

Billy lifts the corners of his mouth in a small smile. "And look at that," he muses. "Things are changing already."

"You know what change would be nice?" Casey asks.

Billy looks keen. "What?"

"Quiet," Casey tells him gruffly. "Do you think you can manage that?"

Another smile spreads across Billy's face. "For you, Casey," he says. "I think I can try."

Casey grunts, easing back against the pillows. He could stay awake, but there's really no need. His team is nearby. His team is safe. _His team._

There are drawbacks, to be sure, but there are advantages, too. Someone there to watch his back. Someone there to care when things go wrong. Someone_ there._

When he's happy; when he's sad; when he's in trouble; when he's at his best.

And someone there when he's laid out in the hospital.

Someone there when he sleeps.

And, Casey thinks as he lets himself drift to sleep, someone to be there when he wakes up again.

The next step may be jarring.

But Casey's always been up for a challenge.


End file.
